Charming Gemma Teller
by Fuzzy Peaches1
Summary: So I was having fun with the Gemma roleplay I was doing on Tumblr, then all my roleplayers disappeared. I did a few longer drabbles that I was kinda proud of. So I was sure you guys would like them. I'll likely start it up as an independent, but I haven't yet. I'm sure I'll have more drabbles to add ...
1. Chapter 1

**Over thirty years ago ...**

* * *

Gemma was nervous. Why the hell was she nervous? She'd been brave enough at eighteen to get married. Why the hell should "pregnant at nineteen" seem so much worse?

Because it was a big deal. Growing up she hadn't been pining for the day she'd get married and start squeezing out little people. She wanted to grow up, be on her own and not trapped by someone else like her parents were; be in control of where her own life took her.

JT took care of all that for her now. She'd gotten married at eighteen, as wildly in love as an eighteen year old could be. Most people would say she was too young for it, but it was an all-consuming, mad love that burned with both contact _and _absence. She'd followed JT right to the Justice of the Peace and hadn't looked back.

The paper on the doctor's examining table crinkled under her ass as she squirmed, huffing out a deep breath while wondering if she'd be able to stop smoking during the nine months ahead of her. _If _the test was positive. She had to remind herself that nothing was for sure … until it _was_.

Responsibility for another life scared the shit out of her. She was still having fun with her husband. Life was still exciting. If she got pregnant and fat … would JT just continue on without her?

She couldn't think of that. Her palm found itself flattened against her abdomen, an unconscious gesture that she kept performing once she started getting sick in the morning and reminded herself about some remedial math that centered around the concept of _twenty-eight days_.

The door opened and she jumped. The doctor, a fellow she didn't know because she wasn't from here, smiled and adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, shut the door behind himself and sat in front of her on a stool, opening a bright blue folder.

"All right, Missus Teller. It looks like I should we wishing you congratulations. You're definitely pregnant."

"Shit." It flew out of her mouth so fast she barely realized she'd said it until she noticed his recoil. Then she felt bad. This was the first clinic she'd walked into where they hadn't looked at her and John and immediately dismissed them as trash. This doctor had been lovely to her, actually. "Sorry," she amended, meaning it. Sincerely.

"This isn't planned I take it?" the doctor surmised, closing the folder.

"No," she answered with a shake of the head.

"Well dear," the doctor said, his voice once again kindly as he took her hand. "It's a blessing. It truly is. You won't know the meaning of unconditional love until you hold that bundle in your arms, feel how they trust you to their very core, and love you simply because you are where they came from." He stood then, taking off his glasses and giving her a downright fatherly smile. "You are blessed, Gemma. Never forget that."

Then he was gone. Gemma stared at the closed door, stunned, a warm feeling washing over her as her hand came to her belly again. Then she dressed, head still a muddled cloud of confusion and met JT in the waiting room.

He looked a wreck. He sprung to his feet, wiping his hands on his jeans, rushing to her and holding her elbows. "Are you okay? What'd they say?"

Gemma felt, by some odd miracle, a smile steal across her lips. "I'm pregnant."

JT's face absorbed it, took in her smile, then he smiled back. "Gem, honey." His voice was thick, as raw as she'd ever heard it. Then he was hugging her so tight, and when she hugged him back she was crying.

Gemma was blessed. She vowed never to forget it.


	2. Buried Son

**Twenty-some years ago ...**

* * *

Gemma closed the front door behind her, immediately kicking off the black patent pumps and letting her feet stretch out with a relieved sigh. Sore feet were not the main issue of the day, but at that moment sore feet took up her remaining emotional currency.

The funeral had been lovely. Elegant, sombre, very grown-up considering it was all to say goodbye to a six-year-old. It seemed as though it happened under water; she had heard things said, sounding muted and hollow and far away. She'd clutched her twelve-year-old son tight to her side until he'd squirmed under the attention. But she'd needed it, and it was for guilt.

The heart defect wasn't a total surprise, but the suddenness of it taking her boy had been a real stunner. He had gone fast, that was a relief. Perhaps.

There was nothing to be ashamed of. She did nothing wrong; what caused her shame was the volume of questions she couldn't answer. _Where's John? John couldn't make it?_

Where's John? Wasn't that just the question of the day?

They'd fought when he left for Belfast. Gemma had been horrible; calling him out on the slut across the ocean he was running off to, demanding to know how old she was, what she looked like, what she had that Gemma didn't. And that bastard hadn't even argued back. That had been the worst part. He sat there mute and sullen and as responsive as a fucking house plant.

She'd been furious. He just … left. No arguing, no denying that he was cheating on her. Boy, did she ever show him. He went off to his piece of Irish ass, so she fucked one of his best friends.

Mary Winston had taken her boys for the night because Jax and Thomas loved sleepovers with Opie. They always asked for one right after she and John had a brawl. But the worst part came when she was putting her clothes back on, wondering what the hell she'd done, and Mary Winston called in a wild panic saying something was wrong with Thomas and they were taking him to the hospital.

Immediately she knew it was his heart, and she began praying to a God she didn't believe in that it wasn't serious and that a quick surgery would fix it all. But he was dead within minutes, she never even got to say goodbye.

Then she couldn't get hold of John because he was furious. They had to go ahead with the funeral, and she hadn't even told her husband that their second son was dead.

Her baby.

She pulled the cork out of an opened bottle of red wine that had been resting on the counter, sat down at the table and drank right from the bottle, the burn causing a catch in her throat that made her sob, then she set the bottle down and covered her mouth. She was staring at the window over the sink, remembering every major moment of raising her son that centered around the kitchen sink. Preparing his bottles, pouring out cough syrup, making him help with washing the dishes when he got to that six-year-old sassy stage.

Gemma was alone now. Jax was back at the Winston's. She couldn't blame him; she was a mess and he could sense it. If he was happier with his buddy that was what she wanted.

He would be able to milk her for anything he wanted for quite a while.

She cheated on her husband. While she was doing that her son was taking his last breaths on this earth. She was terrible. Deplorable.

The tears were silent but soaked her cheeks, dripping down to the front of the black shift she'd numbly put on that morning. She didn't move to wipe her tears, she just took another pull on the wine bottle and ignored how much it hurt to breathe.

The door opened, and she didn't look up. She knew who it was. The only man who had seemed honestly concerned when things were going bad with John. She'd always suspected that he might have been attracted to her, but that was a no-go zone for so many reasons. But when _she _went to _him_ all bets were off.

A warm hand landed on her shoulder, squeezing. She sobbed again, eyes closing as her hand rose to rest on his. He'd avoided being too close at the funeral, but once everyone had headed home or for the clubhouse she had fully expected him to check on her.

The hand slid from her left shoulder across to the right, and he turned her partially towards him. She allowed this, resting her forehead on his chest and wrapping an arm around his waist. His other hand came up to wind in her hair, hugging her close, rubbing circles on her back at the same time. She cried loud and ugly, each sob wrenching her body violently. This was the first time she wept. She had to do it in front of someone she trusted implicitly.

"I'm sorry, Gem," Clay said softly, kissing the top of her head. "I'm so sorry, gorgeous."


	3. Accused

Gemma's boot heel was tapping on the floor. One woman had asked her to "Cut that shit out" already, but a pointed look was enough to shut the bitch up and send her to the far corner of the holding cell.

Now Gemma's arms were crossed tight under her breasts, chewing the hell out of her lip and wondering what the hell had happened with her day. The shock was gone, the worry about Tara was gone.

Now she was pissed way the hell off.

Bullshit. The whole thing was utter bullshit. And being trapped in here meant damage was being done on the outside that she had no control over. Tara was going to get to Jax and the club before Gemma could, and that was enough to be plenty worried about.

Already Gemma's mind was planning a defense. No part of her now believed Tara was pregnant. No way she'd go to this length just to get Gemma thrown in jail. If this went to trial, medical reports would have to prove she was pregnant and had a miscarriage. And Gemma was pretty sure whatever mark was left behind on Tara's abdomen would not resemble a boot. That would have to be documented immediately, and the evidence would not back Tara up no matter _who _was saying they saw the whole thing go down.

_Go ahead_, she was thinking as the holding cell's door was opened. _Press charges, bitch. You got nothing._

The deputy was saying her name, pulling her out of her thoughts. She frowned. "What?"

"Gemma Teller? You're free to go."

She had to pause for a moment. "What?"

"No charges are being laid. You're free to go."

No baby. No miscarriage. _No charges._

As she waited for her personal effects to be returned Gemma's mind was whirling on another tangent now. She was being played, but to what end she had no idea.


	4. First Touch

The door slammed behind her, and it didn't make her feel any better. She stopped in the centre of the TM office, hand to her forehead, willing herself not to burst into tears. Gemma may have been tough but that didn't mean shit couldn't hurt her. She just wouldn't let anyone know about it.

Swiped at her eyes angrily, she crossed the floor and plopped into the chair at her desk. Focusing on work would help. Thinking of something other than her no-good husband leaving for fucking _Ireland _without even saying a word about it to her first was definitely required.

Ireland. Yeah, that required a "Oh, by the way" mention somewhere along the fucking way. And then to stand in a room of her husband's co-workers and brothers, which were _her friends_ as well incidentally and ask "Has anyone seen John?" was pretty damn embarrassing.

Clay had stepped up, tone gentle. "He went to Ireland, Gem." His face was sympathetic.

And she _knew_. Right at that moment. There was someone else in Ireland. It wasn't just JT's mission to get SAMCRO free of guns. He was in Ireland more than Charming and if he was just negotiating that could be done over the phone. Her husband was fucking around on her, and she'd bet most of his friends – and _her _friends – knew about it.

She tried to write out invoices but the damn words kept blurring together. Impatient, she pulled off her glasses and shoved her fingers into the corners of her eyes, wondering if it worked for tears like it worked for blood flow. It was silent, but her body shook from tears.

When the hands came to her shoulders she knew who it was. She let him squeeze her, then he pulled that warmth away for a moment. She rubbed both eyes, sniffled and put her glasses back on.

"I'm fine," she lied as he circled the desk to stand next to it. "I'll get this paperwork done and I'll … I'll go."

"Gem."

She frowned, shaking her head. "Don't, Clay. I need to get my work done and go home."

Clay Morrow turned the chair away from the work she'd been messing up, facing her his direction. He crouched low, taking her hands in his. "He's a goddamn idiot," Clay said low, voice rumbling as his words nearly took her skin off.

"He's just meeting with the Irish, right?" It sounded bitter to her ears.

Clay's blue eyes stayed on hers as he raised her hands to his lips. He kissed the back of both hands. "He's an idiot. You were my woman, I wouldn't be across an ocean. I'd be with you every minute."

Gemma's breath caught. He wasn't trying to make her feel better. He was saying a lot with that simple statement. As she watched his eyes dropped from hers, and she got the feeling he wanted to kiss her. She'd known Clay was attracted to her, she suspected he was the first time they met. That had never gone away, but he'd always been respectful of her.

"You were my woman, I'd make sure you felt like a queen every goddamn day."

Gemma swallowed then loudly drew in air. "Clay, don't."

He leaned towards her, his eyes on her mouth. She felt a flare of desire, want; just a small one but it was there. There was a thrill that always came when someone was about to kiss you. She watched his eyes as he drew near, then she freed one hand and pressed it to the centre of his chest. "Wait," she gasped, turning her face to the side.

_Married_. It might not mean a lot to JT but it still meant _something _to her.

"Okay Gem," he relented agreeably, standing but keeping one of her hands in his big one. He drew her hand up again, bringing her to her feet, pressing a longer kiss to that hand. "But I'm here for you, beautiful. Anything you want."

Leaving her in stunned and heart-racing silence, Clay left the office and shut the door behind himself.

Gemma slumped into her chair, trying to steady her breath. She turned her attention back to the invoices but the feeling of those lips on her skin made concentrating impossible.

That first touch was going to be her undoing, she just knew it.


	5. Forbidden

Gemma wasn't sure how she ended up making it to the house she was parked in front of. Her eyes were full, spilling tears. She parked somehow and was at the door, knocking before she considered that this could be a bad idea.

Clay answered her knock, drying his hands on a towel, immediately looking concerned. "Gem? Something wrong?" He opened the storm door and motioned her inside.

She found herself in his square kitchen, noting the plates on a drying rack. He'd been doing dishes. She stared at them, covering her mouth and trying to pull it together.

"Gem? What happened?"

She spun back to him, coughing out a sob. "Her name's _Maureen_," she spat out. "Maureen _Ashby_. I just heard her voice on the phone. I called the hotel, asked for John's room and _she _answered the phone."

Clay closed the inside door, flipping the dishtowel over his shoulder. "Ah, shit," he mumbled, walking past her staring at his feet and heading to his sink.

"Do you know her? Have you met her?"

Clay rested his ass against the counter, turning to face her and crossing his arms on his chest. "Met her once, Gem. Can't say I know her, no."

She dug her fingernails into her palms. "I'm going to kill him," she promised, seething.

"Don't do _that _honey," Clay said softly, his eyes twinkling just a bit. "Hate to have to go all the way to San Joaquin Women's Correctional to see that smile."

Something in that made her back straighten up. She shook her head. "Clay, don't -"

"Gem," he cut her off, moving forward and taking her hands. "He's made up his mind."

She inhaled, eyes searching his face. "This is my marriage, Clay."

He squeezed her hands. "It's his marriage too. And he's decided it ain't worth the paper your certificate's printed on."

When she took a breath it was sharp, it hurt.

"Hurts to see you hurting," Clay said, very softly. "I've always seen John as a leader in our club, a man I'd follow to the death. But now …" he shook his head and his jaw set hard. "He ain't worth your crying, sweetheart."

Gemma tried to pull her hands free of his but he tightened his grip.

"Gem," he said softly, moving closer so she had to take a step back but her legs hit a kitchen chair. "You deserve so much better than this. And I know you deserve better than me but … I'd work myself to the bone to give you everything you wanted."

She successfully freed one hand wiping at her eyes. Now she was scared, a bit panicked. "Clay, I can't discuss this -"

He stepped into her and used his free hand to cup her jaw. His hand was large, warm. A shiver ran through her chest at that touch and she tried to remember the last time she felt that particular sensation. She thought on it too long because while she was paused he kissed her.

His lips weren't soft, they were rough. His stubble added to that. He let go of her hand and she felt that warm palm on her lower back, pulling her against the expanse of his chest. Where the touch of his mouth was soft, he held her tight, possessively. Like he couldn't stand to let her go.

There wasn't a _thought _of resisting. She opened her mouth, he slid his tongue past her lips. Her hands curled in the fabric of his T-shirt at his sides, a slight whimper escaping.

Tender, yes. But still hot, passionate. He tasted her thoroughly but gently, his hands held her in place with unnecessary force. She wasn't stepping away, she didn't want to shove him off and end this. His chest rose and fell against hers, and knowing that he was as undone from this kiss as she was sent another thrill along her skin, down the back of her neck right to where his hand sat.

Could have been two minutes, could have been _twenty_. She didn't know, she just wanted to memorize this kiss but every caress of a lip or sweep of his tongue felt brand new and she had to start all over again.

He parted their mouths but didn't let her go, just rested his forehead on hers, eyes closed as his breathing remained heated. "Gem," he whispered.

The word made her close her eyes, resting a hand on the centre of his chest. He caught it and held it there, squeezing. "I don't know what we're doing," she whispered.

He shook his head slowly, raising her hand to kiss her fingers. "My queen shouldn't be crying over some asshole that doesn't know what he has. And from _that _I know he had more than he ever deserved." She winced, trying to step back but he held tight. "Gem," he repeated, firmer this time. "Stay here tonight. Let's follow this. That was too good, the rest has to be even sweeter, honey."

Her body seized, a spot deep inside rocked pleasantly. When he brought his mouth closer she didn't hesitate or resist; she met his mouth eagerly, hands running around his shoulders. With strong arms he gathered her against him, mouths linked, bodies dying to follow suit.


End file.
